


Like Clockwork

by robotboy



Series: Flying Blind [6]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sparring, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:08:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24694288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotboy/pseuds/robotboy
Summary: A sparring match where the winner takes all.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Paz Vizla
Series: Flying Blind [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698328
Comments: 20
Kudos: 187





	Like Clockwork

**Author's Note:**

> Consent warning: there’s no verbal consent in this fic. However, it’s made clear there are pre-negotiated physical safewords, and that it’s a mutually pleasurable scene.

Din might have started the fight, but Paz will be the one to finish it.

Tensions run high in the covert. Too little to do and not enough space. They need opportunities to keep their reflexes sharp, to practice the fighting skills that keep them alive.

Din knows the practicalities. He also knows that nothing gets his heart racing like this.

He ducks under Paz’ fist, aiming a nasty jab at the muscle joining Paz’ chest to his shoulder. It only makes Paz grunt and square off again. Din stays light on his feet, feinting to the left and then the right. Paz snorts in contempt: he knows he’s being taunted into committing, and once he does Din will slither out of his range. They circle, Paz sparing no excess movement while Din keeps prancing. Finally, Paz has Din where he wants him: backed against the wall, no clever escapes.

He charges, and Din drops. His leg sweeps out to trip Paz. Paz’ knee slams into Din’s sternum and Din sucks in a gasp. But he follows through on the technique, his arm curling around Paz’ thigh to bring him crashing to the ground.

The first fight they had, Paz broke his arm. Din has learned since then that his advantage is speed: he moves like silk in the air, landing quick blows that will eventually tire Paz out. He hasn’t learned to stop picking fights.

Paz growls, his boot smashing into Din’s hip. Din rolls away, letting the floor absorb the worst of the impact. He could have taken the kick and tried to get a few more licks in, but Paz is just as dangerous on the ground as he is upright. Better to use his weight against him.

He’s halfway up when Din lashes out, raining punches down on Paz’ kidneys and spine. Paz flings an elbow back in retaliation. It catches Din in the ribs. Din huffs through the pain, hitting the gap between Paz’ helmet and his pauldron with a knife-hand strike. Paz shrinks around the blow, trapping Din’s hand. Din kicks, but Paz has the advantage: he grabs Din’s arm and pulls it up over his shoulder, hauling Din off his feet. If Paz throws himself backwards, the impact will break Din’s ribs. Din writhes desperately, fingers digging into Paz’ armpit and clawing at the nerves there. He could grab Paz’ helmet, but then the match would be over.

He doesn’t want it to be over, not yet.

Paz flinches away from Din’s incessant attacks, and Din manages to wriggle himself free in the process. His vambrace hooks on Paz’ bandolier: it almost dislocates his arm, but both of them slow, a moment’s reprieve while they disentangle, before Paz takes a loose swing at Din. It’s not that kind of game: it’s only a game.

Din dances on the spot, searching for an opening. Paz’ weak points are his sides; the undersides of his arms; backs of the knees. Din has given his lower back a good pummelling. The neck is out of bounds and he’s had a painful reminder to protect his underarms.

Paz barrels toward him and Din darts to one side, twirling into a snap kick that lands right at the crook of Paz’ knee. Paz roars and drops to the ground. Din is a moment from regaining his balance when Paz lunges, shoulder colliding with Din’s shins and sending Din crashing onto his back.

Din writhes and thrashes like a hooked fish, kicking thoughtlessly at Paz’ helmet. It’s no use: Paz has a solid grip on Din’s legs and uses it to haul him closer. Din scrabbles for freedom, but now Paz’ head is so near Din can hear his staggered breathing, feel the heat emanating from him. He easily flips Din onto his stomach, dragging him into a position where his chest slams onto Din’s back. All he has to do is bear down, and Din’s immobilised.

He doesn’t tap out. He makes Paz work for it, twisting and snarling every time Paz shifts. Din’s fingers clench into fists, his feet sliding against the floor.

‘I got you,’ Paz reminds him.

Din snorts, and—it’s stupid because Paz _does_ have him—tries to prise himself up onto knees and elbows. It might have worked, if Paz weighed a ton or so less. As it is, Paz uses the pressure to kick Din’s legs apart, removing the last of his leverage. He spreads his weight across Din’s back and Din has no way to resist.

Then Paz bears down, and Din feels the codpiece pressing harder into his ass than it should.

He should have expected it. Everyone’s blood gets up during a sparring match, and he knows Paz likes to win. The right thing to do would be ignore it, spit some pithy dismissal, or tap out. But the seconds drag on, and Paz’ hips shift.

Din gasps. His breath is getting hot and wet inside the helmet. He should have fought harder. He should have _tried_ to win.

He shouldn’t buck his hips back, no matter how much he aches for it.

‘Give up?’ Paz’ voice is rough. His left arm is braced across Din’s shoulders.

‘Nope,’ Din mutters, lifting his chin. There’s a _clink_ as the back of his helmet touches Paz’ visor.

Paz huffs a laugh. Din spreads his legs wider, and he can tell from the pressure on his chest how it makes Paz’ breath catch. Paz adjusts his hold on Din, so his weight is spread evenly, and then his right hand slides between their bodies. Din holds his breath, and sure enough, when Paz lays on top of him again the codpiece is gone. In its place is Paz’ hard cock, just as hard and practically as thick. Din’s heart pounds in his throat.

Paz doesn’t move, not at first. The pressure on Din’s shoulders releases enough that Din could slap the floor twice, and call this off.

He doesn’t.

Paz nudges against Din’s ass and Din shudders, hips tilting as much as Paz will allow. Paz must be able to tell how shallow Din’s breathing has become, how his toes scrabble eagerly on the floor.

He must, because his hand finds the buckle of Din’s belt and wrenches it undone. Paz’ boot shoves Din’s legs back together and Din complies. He lifts himself up onto his knees without a word, and Paz wrenches his pants down. Din shivers at the rush of air on his skin. While Paz deals with his own clothing, Din tries to adjust his position, so his cock won’t be trapped against the floor. It distracts him from the possibility that Paz might be looking at him, eyes trailing over his ass, noticing the peach-fuzz on his thighs. Better to concentrate on saving himself some painful squashing later, because Paz certainly won’t concern himself with that.

Paz settles on top of him, and this time his knees bracket Din’s. Din tenses when Paz’ cock presses along his ass, It’s as huge as the rest of him—as big as Din had imagined, in moments he wouldn’t admit to anyone. The searing heat of it shoves against Din’s ass and Paz growls, rutting against him. Din rocks back, so Paz’ cock slides along the cleft. Both of them are sweat-damp and Paz’ cock is already wet at the head, a drip trailing down from Din’s tailbone. Paz drags the head of his cock in a long slide down, followed by a thrust between Din’s cheeks. Din can’t contain a whimper.

Paz pauses at the sound. Din curls his hands into fists, and rocks his hips, just barely, just enough to ask for more.

Paz grunts. A gloved hand slips between Din’s thighs, leveraging them apart. There’s only so much space, with Din’s knees still trapped in his pants, and Paz holding him down. Din frowns in confusion, then Paz’ cock nestles between his thighs, the head tucked behind Din’s balls. Din keeps himself pliant as Paz adjusts him, making a snug space to thrust into. Paz slides out and back in, and Din’s cock twitches at the sensation. Paz thrusts again and Din clenches his thighs, drawing a snarl from Paz. His arm locks across Din’s shoulders and the other grips his flank, keeping him in place. Din bites down on his lip, safe and unseen in the helmet. Paz’ hips work like pistons, shoving into the tight heat of Din’s thighs.

Din knows if he resists too much, Paz will end this. If he reveals how much he’s enjoying it, Paz will end this. He can’t stop from quivering, nor can he keep his chest from heaving with quick breaths. If he could, he’d slip a hand down his waist, stroke himself in time with Paz. But that’s not part of the game. Paz won the fight: he gets the spoils. What Din takes from it is whatever’s left.

Paz isn’t going to last long: the heat of this happened in the fight, and Din’s the one with stamina. Paz slams down and Din swallows back a groan. His cock is hard and straining between his belly and the floor. He rocks back, tilting until the angle of Paz’ thrusts puts pressure on that spot behind his balls that makes his vision turn white. Paz’ breath is stuttering, each arc of his hips getting shallower as he draws closer. Din tenses as much as he can, making it tight, focusing on the stunning length of Paz’ shaft and the way he’s quaking, losing control. Then Paz unleashes a groan, shoving into Din once more, and floods Din’s thighs with warmth.

He rolls off Din right away, which is lucky, because the alternative would probably crush Din. Din keeps still, training his breathing slower. He can hear Paz dressing already. Din eases himself to splay on the floor, not quite relaxed, but languid enough to conceal the effect this has had on him. Paz stands up, and in the corner of his visor, Din can see his boot.

There is a pause. It’s protracted, cranked tight between them like the sparring match, even if it only lasts a few seconds. Then the heavy, rhythmic footfall of Paz leaving Din there, stinking of sex and achingly hard against the floor of the covert.

Din sighs. Paz might have started it, but he’ll have to be the one to finish it.


End file.
